


you're not the first (you're not the last)

by ElasticElla



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Hogwarts Era, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22514548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: A smoke break at midnight, when all the good little witches are sleeping.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25
Collections: Femflash February 2020, femslashficlets: tarot prompt challenge





	you're not the first (you're not the last)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).



> title from emilie autumn's misery loves company

Ginny remembers. 

Sometimes, she wishes she didn’t. Not truly. Without it, there isn’t much left to her. She learned what it was like to be consumed by someone else’s wants at eleven, never forgot the feeling. It must be how fanatics feel- full, burning up with purpose and need. 

She tries dating, as if sex could soothe the emptiness where hunger belongs. She tries boys and girls, older and younger, from any house- it’s a disappointment that there isn’t much difference once the school ties are gone. None of it works. All she gains is a reputation that has Ron trying to play protective brother too late, the experience to match. 

Her mother doesn’t send a howler, but the jagged edges of her letter show she wanted to. Ginny doesn’t quite smirk, banishing the parchment. If only it were so simple. 

They don’t get it. It isn’t a plea for attention or love or such hogwash. It isn’t a phase or experimentation, nor a rebellion. She’s okay with them not getting it. (Better off really that they don’t understand her mind.)

Ginny leans against the quidditch lockers, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it up. 

She wants to want again. And it sounds stupid put like that. But fuck, she can remember the drive Tom had, how eagerly she spilt her own blood, magic for him. She’s just going through the motions, getting acceptable enough grades not to be questioned, flying acceptably enough not to be singled out. 

She inhales deep, deeper than you’re supposed to. The smoke fills her lungs, dries them out with a bitter exhale. A nasty habit, her mum had said, and she wasn’t wrong. (Her mum caught Fred and George smoking once, made them finish an entire pack that day, had them throwing up and swearing to never do it again.)

There’s a moment, for the barest seconds, when her lungs are full and aching, her lips crushed together as if that’ll hold it in, when Ginny feels not full, but not hollow either. Like a carrier, and that thought nearly makes her laugh. She’s carried, cared for, enough parasites. 

“Can I have a spare?” 

Ginny’s eyes flick left, must betray her surprise to see Parkinson out here alone in the middle of the night. 

“Course,” she answers, pulling one out. 

Parkinson’s nose crinkles when she sees the cheap brand, making her look even more puglike than normal. 

“Unfiltered? Ugh,” she says, grabbing the stick and performing a charm. 

Ginny shrugs, taking another drag. She isn’t used to someone else being out here, doesn’t give a damn about Parkinson’s delicate taste buds. 

Parkinson blows pretty smoke rings of different colors, and Ginny wonders who the fuck she’s thinking of impressing. As if it could be seen from the castle. (It can’t. There’s a reason she hoofed it all the way down here, that and last time she tried a tower she was interrupted by a couple trying to fuck under the stars.)

“You’re a miserable witch Ginerva,” Parkinson says without preamble. “Miserable company too.” 

Ginny barks out a laugh, “Back atcha _Pansy_.” 

The girl doesn’t bristle like she expected at dropping her given name, though Ginny supposes she did it first. 

Pansy scoffs, “At least I’m providing some entertainment. You’re just brooding. I don’t think Gryffindors are supposed to do that.” 

Ginny snorts, “Then I don’t think Slytherins are supposed to be concerned about other people’s welfare.” 

She rolls her eyes, “I’m not. You’re boring me.” 

Ginny tosses the cigarette aside, a momentary disappointment when it hits the pitch and fizzles out rather than setting it ablaze. She steps in front of Pansy, assessing her once more. Her bob needs to be trimmed again, split ends taking away from the severity. Her eyes are dark, staring back at her, and her lips are deep purple, stark. Her throat swallows, and her uniform is undone enough that Ginny wonders if Pansy came out here with a plan or usually alters her clothes- her skirt charmed short too. Her cigarette is loose in her hand, purple smudged around one end, nails bitten short. 

She isn’t a beauty by anyone’s measure, but she’s interesting. And sometimes, that’s better. 

Ginny takes another step into her space, robes brushing against each other, and there’s no questioning why. Pansy only smirks, and Ginny takes the invitation, kissing her until the dark purple lipstick is smudged everywhere. 

(On her knees, Pansy’s thighs tight around her head, it’s almost like she’s subsumed. Almost.)


End file.
